


Improvisational Facade

by Writernon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Coming Untouched sort of, Community: sherlockbbc_fic, Consent Issues, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Home Invasion Roleplay, John will do anything for Sherlock, M/M, Mild Gunplay, Mimicry of Violence, Possible Failure to Safeword, Rape Roleplay, Sexual Fantasy, Sort of Dom Drop?, Used Archive non-con warning to be safe, improvised bondage, mild spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 01:19:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writernon/pseuds/Writernon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/4777.html?thread=14309545#t14309545">Prompt</a> - Sherlock has a rape fantasy and asks John to indulge it. Which John does, incredibly reluctantly, but it's what Sherlock wants, even if it kind of breaks John's heart to do so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Improvisational Facade

**Author's Note:**

> I first posted this [here](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/4777.html?thread=27405993#t27405993) on the SherlockBBC_Fic Meme Feb. 6, 2011. 
> 
>  
> 
> It was titled "Masquerade" at first but someone started posting a different "Masquerade" elsewhere while I was posting this so I changed the title to something more ~~pretentious~~ unique partway through.

Rape is about control, power; it's about taking something against the other person's will, using them. In John's mind, violence and sex were two different fields of operation. He knew his capacity for violence quite well. But not this.

Sherlock wanted this. He'd been at John about it for a while, role-playing out a rape. John had said maybe, someday, just to get Sherlock to stop asking. Sherlock had smiled and named a safeword, then dropped the topic entirely. After that, he'd caught Sherlock looking at him a little more consideringly, but nothing more was said.

Sherlock wanted John to do it, so of course he would. That was, after all, the status quo.

After running it through his mind a while, John was still getting only the most desultory response from his libido. When it came to the sex part, if he still wasn't finding things appealing, he would need to improvise. Months of widely varied sex with Sherlock had made him very good at improvising. He decided to change focus and plot the tactical elements.

Mrs. Hudson had to be out, of course, with no danger of an unexpected return. No cases in progress. Some night when Sherlock wasn't expecting him to return for hours. An assembly of equipment kept in an old kit bag in the corner of the closet. A pair of gloves, bought specifically for the... occasion.

He'd fretted most about one thing in the planning stages. Using his unloaded gun to bolster the threat he presented to Sherlock. It had been something that Sherlock had brought up when making his frequent requests; John holding a knife to his throat, or strangling him, both of which had in some way been brought into their bedroom escapades in past sexual experimentation, neither of which John felt comfortable using to make even a play-acted threat with. It would be too easy, should Sherlock play up the struggling, for a knife to slip, or choking turn to crushing. As wrong as it was, John felt safer using his unloaded gun as the falsified coercion. Every weapons trainer he'd ever had would have fits of apoplexy if they knew what he was planning, but it was the safest option.

Tonight his shift at the surgery had been cancelled at the last minute and Sherlock was unaware of that, and there were no cases, just some experiment Sherlock was running in the kitchen. John had debated phoning Lestrade to be sure there would be no unexpected visits, but the last thing he wanted to do before undertaking this madness was talk to an officer of the law. He'd removed the clip and the chambered bullet from his gun, leaving them with his spare ammunition under his socks, tucking the empty weapon into his jacket and replacing his usual carry-bag with the one from the closet with the new gloves tucked in the top.

So that was it. Tonight was the night. John Watson was as ready as he'd ever be to rape his flatmate.

*

He'd gotten on the bus as usual for a shift, but got off only a stop away and walked back. Sherlock had been in the kitchen dripping something on something else, and so focused he would likely not have moved since.

John looked up at the flat's windows. No change from a few minutes ago. He glanced over to Mrs. Hudson's windows and the windows of the flat next door. Mrs. Turner's tenants looked to be out too, and Speedy's was closed for the afternoon.

 _Right. I'm a rapist._ John swallowed, and pulled his gloves out of his pocket. _There's a man in that flat I intend to overpower and have my evil way with._

He had stuck a bit of tape over the door latch and only made the noises of locking the deadbolt as he'd left. The door had been silent when he pushed it open, then closed behind him. Which left him now standing in the foyer of the flat, holding his unloaded gun and trying to work up the nerve to get upstairs and rape his flatmate as he'd been asked. 

He kept to the outside wall of the staircase, skipping over the creaky steps. He could hear Sherlock muttering in the kitchen. Maybe this wasn't a good time, maybe there was an experiment that would blow up the flat if it was interrupted.

John checked his gun a fourth time. Still no bullets. Safety still on. This was wrong. It felt wrong. He didn't do things like this. He preferred his sexual partners completely, enthusiastically willing. 

_He wants this. He very specifically and graphically asked for it. He all but drew a bloody diagram. Stop being a wally and get it over with. If it's a bad time for it or he's changed his mind, he'll say the safeword and that'll be that._

John gripped his empty gun and made his move, swinging around the kitchen door. He took two steps, dropped his bag and grabbed the detective by the shoulder, putting the gun-barrel between his shoulder-blades.

"What the-!"

"Shaddup. No screaming or I'll kill you." John caught a view of Sherlock's face on the side of the toaster, with a slight satisfied smirk before his expression changed to anger and fear. 

"Don't shoot!" Sherlock raised his hands.

 _I'm not me, I'm a mad rapist. Stay in character._ "Don't turn around, don't look at me." John snarled. "If you see me I'll have to kill you. Nod if you understand."

Sherlock nodded.

John swallowed and tried not to croak. "Good." 

"Please. I've got a flatmate. He's out now but he could be back any minute, just take what you want and go, before he returns."

"Oh, I'll be taking what I want," John let his hand drift from Sherlock's shoulder round to the front of his hip. "Everything I want. Maybe I'll have him for afters." _God I sound like a bad porn movie._

Sherlock didn't laugh, but said, quickly and breathlessly "Please, you can't- Do what you want to me. I'll do whatever you want. Just don't hurt him."

John's stomach flipped and a warm feeling threatened to make him put the gun down and snog Sherlock senseless. Or lecture him on self-worth. There was more than a little complexity to this pretending to rape your flatmate business.

 _Stage one, complete. Stage two. Yeah. That._ There were suddenly far too many windows in the sitting room and kitchen. "Bedroom." John nudged Sherlock's T3 vertebrae with the gun barrel. "Now."

Sherlock lead the way to the bedroom, hands kept in the air. John followed.

*

In their too-familiar bedroom, John's mind went blank. This was insane. What in hell was he doing? 

"Wh- what do you want me to do?" Sherlock prompted, hands still raised.

_Character. In character. Sherlock wants this._

John swallowed and spoke gruffly. "On your knees. Turn around."

"But I'll see you."

 _Gah. Bloody logic._ "Then if you don't want to die you had better keep your eyes closed hadn't you? And keep your teeth to yourself."

Sherlock turned and kneeled with his eyes closed, feeling his way up John's legs to pull his belt loose and unzip his flies. John's throat dried out completely. 

He nudged the empty gun to Sherlock's temple. There was something that felt very wrong about holding the gun to Sherlock's head, even though he knew it wasn't loaded and the safety was on.

"Go on, take it out."

Sherlock pushed John's trousers and pants down on his hips and pulled out John's half-hard cock. He wrapped his long-fingered hand around it, and stroking once, twice gently, making it swell more before wrapping his lips around, sliding it over his tongue. 

Gun and role-play or no, Sherlock on his knees bypassed a great many of John's qualms and rational faculties and arousal was inevitable. John watched as Sherlock bobbed back and forth, eyes closed, letting John's thickening cock slide freely between his lips. The gun barrel dipped and John's breath started to shorten as the familiar loving expertise of Sherlock's lips and tongue reminded the non-thinking parts of his anatomy that there was sex to be had this afternoon, it just happened to involve pretending Sherlock didn't want it.

John took a deep breath -- resisting the urge to take the gloves off and slide his fingers through Sherlock's hair, drop to his own knees and kiss him thoroughly -- and raised the gun to Sherlock's temple again.

Sherlock whimpered, actually whimpered around his cock.

"Right. Enough of that." John put a palm on Sherlock's forehead and pushed him off with an obscenely slick pop. "Strip. Quickly. Then on the bed, face down, hands on the head board."

He left his own trousers and pants on, leaving his cock jutting out as Sherlock stripped down. 

There was no sensuality in Sherlock stripping, but the way he stood and the motions of his hands were not the same ones John saw every night as Sherlock readied for bed. Instead, he was turning inward, almost shy, hiding his body from view, hands shielding, fluttering nervously. Defending himself from his assailant's eyes. 

Still holding his gun, John felt slightly nauseous.

Eyes still closed, Sherlock groped his way to the bed and lay face down, as instructed. John took a moment to just look at Sherlock's long pale limbs stretched out on their bed. He reached down, running a gloved finger up Sherlock's calf to the back of his thigh, climbing onto the bed between Sherlock's legs. Sherlock's breath was fast, more excited than afraid, and his legs twitched.

"We're going to get along just fine, you keep doing what I ask." John had to admit, Sherlock obeying him was a little intoxicating. At the same time, Sherlock obeying anyone, being afraid and used at a gun-wielding intruder's whim made John want to hurt that intruder very badly. As a result, he was intoxicatedly pondering beating himself viciously with a cricket bat. It wasn't helping.

As he prowled up the long length of Sherlock's body, his exposed cock rubbed gently along the soft hair of his flatmate's thighs and up to the crevice of his incongruously round arse where it nestled as though it had a homing instinct. That, now. That was helping. 

John needed both hands free, because there were suddenly a great many things he wanted to do with them. He put the gun down on the bedside table and was immediately rewarded with a whirling flurry of limbs.

"Oi, oi!" He picked the gun up and placed it against the bare skin under Sherlock's right ear. "Just because I put it down doesn't mean it's far away."

The gun went down again and rather than pick it up when Sherlock started thrashing, John set to pinning Sherlock to the bed as thoroughly as possible.

"If you're going to be like that I'll have to restrain you." John had been planning something a little less frantic for this stage of events, but the ridiculous thing he realised too late was that he'd left the small bag with the gaffer tape and hand cuffs and a few other items in the kitchen. 

He cursed, rolled to the side and picked some socks up off the floor while gripping Sherlock's wrists together against the small of his back. Straddling Sherlock's back and pinning his right hand with his full weight, John pulled Sherlock's left hand up to the slats of the headboard, tying the sock around the wrist and to the slat in a makeshift handcuff. As soon as John released the hand, Sherlock pulled against the restraint, hard enough to whiten the skin around the bond, but the sock only tightened. Sherlock's breath heaved as John did the same to the other hand.

_Hands down, legs to go._

John got lost in the logistics of angles for a minute. With Sherlock spread-eagled and face down, the next bit of business would be awkward and it was awkward enough already. Looking around the room for options his eyes lit on the belt in Sherlock's trousers. Not quite long enough on its own, but...

He pulled his own belt out through the loops and laid it across Sherlock's back.

"Don't move. Don't even breathe." John leaned down to grab the belt from the trousers on the floor, and was nearly bucked off the bed when Sherlock thrashed his legs around. 

"Oi!" he said, pinning Sherlock's legs again and on impulse smacking his flatmate's arse with his gloved hand.

Sherlock gasped and shuddered.

"No. Kicking." John snarled, putting as much menace into his words as he could. 

Sherlock flexed one leg and John smacked his arse again, harder, making Sherlock gasp again. His handprint burned red against Sherlock's pale skin. John stared at it for a second as it faded to a dark pink.

 _Now that's fascinating._ From the way his cock twitched, that was something John wanted to do more of, and from the way Sherlock's legs were continuing to twitch and wiggle, he wasn't averse to it either.

_File it for later. We're getting off script here._

He dropped his full weight suddenly flat against Sherlock's back, forcing the pinned man's breath out in a sudden grunt. John threaded a gloved hand in Sherlock's curly hair and pulled his flatmate's head up. Air hissed between Sherlock's teeth and he squeezed his eyes shut tighter. _Still keeping them shut because of that 'if you see me I'll have to kill you' business earlier. Christ alive, Sherlock._

John's voice was a broken growl into Sherlock's ear. "The more you struggle, the less pleasant this will be for you. I can be a very very unpleasant man."

"I don't doubt it." Sherlock whispered.

"You have no idea." John sucked hard on the long exposed neck before he let Sherlock's hair go, allowing his head to fall back onto the pillow. He snatched up the second belt and set about buckling it together with his own into a contiguous length of leather.

"Knees. Up. I want your arse in the air." He snapped, digging his fingers into the back of Sherlock's thighs, bending his legs. John put the joined belts in the ticklish places behind Sherlock's knees as he raised up. When Sherlock's hips were folded double, John joined the other ends of the belts over Sherlock's back, trapping his knees at his sides and keeping him nearly bent in half and fully exposed. Sherlock's grunt as John pulled the belts tight seemed almost impressed. John's stomach flipped.

After the buckles were cinched, John leaned back and looked. Sherlock lay face-down on his own bed, chest heaving, wiry arms and legs straining against their improvised bonds. His skin was already reddening at his wrists and knees, and there were red patches on his back and legs where John had held him down, as well at the still-pink patch on his backside from being firmly smacked. 

Sherlock's head was turned to the side, and he made small whimpering noises against his up-stretched arm. "Please, just do anything you want."

Certain parts of John's anatomy were suddenly very keen on whatever would happen next. 

"Keep your face down." John got lube and condoms from the bedside table, breaking character a bit since an intruder would have to fumble around to find that. The cap on the lubricant snapped open loudly in the momentary quiet and Sherlock flinched.

Slicking his gloved fingers, John rubbed lubricant around and into Sherlock, a familiar motion now, but the scenario of this being a rape made the action feel obscene rather than caring and sensual. _Would a rapist even do this? Would he just take Sherlock unprepared?_

John resolved to stop thinking about such things or he might actually be sick. 

_Character. Stay in character._ "Not for your sake," John growled, "I just don't want to rip the skin off my cock when I do you up the arse."

Sherlock let out a convincingly terrified moan. It was hard for John to fight the instinct to stop and remove the source of distress. Which was himself. This, so much about this felt wrong. He knew it was all an act, and Sherlock wanted this, had begged for him to do this, that other couples did this sort of thing with no issues at all, but... John swallowed.

After less prep than usual, since John was worried about Sherlock's circulation in the improvised bonds, he lined up behind Sherlock, pushing his own trousers and pants down to his knees. He stroked himself to full hardness before rolling the condom on and applying extra lubricant. 

Sherlock still had his eyes shut tight, face turned to the side, mouth nearly slack, breathing in deep gasps. John thought he saw the shine of wetness around Sherlock's closed eyes.

_Oh god._

"Are- are you sure...?" he whispered.

"Please," Sherlock grated out. "Please, just do it."

 _Right then._ Lining his cock up, he pushed in in one smooth slow motion. It never failed to surprise him how hot and tight this was, and he paused with an appreciative groan when his cock was fully sheathed inside Sherlock.

A moan echoed back from Sherlock as John began thrusting. For a while, John could forget his empty gun was on the side table and his flatmate was trussed up like a game hen and his new gloves had been places no faux-leather gloves were intended to go. For a moment it was just him and Sherlock and another strange sexual experiment, and his cock was fully pleased with the events unfolding, even if the rest of John was still ambivalent.

But then he noticed the stark, broken noises from Sherlock. 

Not like he was in pain, but like he was, well, like he was being raped. Tears ran openly down Sherlock's face and John felt like the lowest thing on the Earth, even though this was what he'd been asked to do. It was all making John's libido fight with his need to provide care and protection. He couldn't help but reach out with a gloved hand to smooth down Sherlock's arm and shoulder, down his side, gentling, soothing. When he reached back up to repeat the motion, Sherlock shrugged his shoulder violently, shaking off John's hand. _Not in character. Or extremely creepy for a rapist. Not what he wants now._

John tried to reach around to discover his own cleverness with the leather belts (now pressing a bit too deeply into the flesh around Sherlock's knees) had made Sherlock's cock inaccessible. John swore and thrust harder, angling to hit Sherlock's prostate. Sherlock gasped, his face clenching up, jaw falling open, broken noises merging into a single drawn-out groan. The headboard creaked as Sherlock strained hard against the improvised bonds. 

_He's close, oh good._ John closed his own eyes with a frown, grabbed Sherlock's hips firmly and pounded at the new angle, sweat beading on his brow. 

Sherlock's moan broke into breathless staccato grunts. Before long he buried his face in the pillow and screamed as he came, ejaculating unseen into the bed. John felt Sherlock's muscles tighten and pulse and followed him into his own orgasm, folding down over Sherlock's back, gasping against the smooth sweaty skin as his cock twitched and spasmed.

Regaining his breath, he reached up to stroke Sherlock's hair, but saw the glove still on his hand and couldn't stand the sight anymore. 

_Stage three. End this._

He pulled out of Sherlock and disposed of the condom. Sherlock's face was buried in the pillow and his back was heaving, great deep breaths. John didn't know if they were sobs. He wasn't sure he could ever look himself in the mirror again if they were, pretend or no.

John swallowed, his gloved hand hovering a few inches over Sherlock's trembling shoulder, wanting to offer comfort. _Just stay in character and get out. Then this will all be over._ Quickly, he untied the socks and unbuckled the belts, noting return of restricted blood flow and redness, no bleeding anywhere and wanting nothing more than to get out of the room now. He pulled his trousers up, tucked himself away and grabbed his gun off the night table.

"Right. You stay exactly where you are. No screaming, no shouting, and if you call the coppers I'll come round and have you again, and I won't be so gentle next time. Maybe I'll have that flatmate of yours as well."

"No. No." Sherlock was actually shaking. Christ.

"Count. Backwards from one hundred. Slow. When you're done, you can get up and- and clean yourself up. Don't call anyone or go anywhere. I know where you live."

"One hundred. Ninety-nine. Ninety-eight." Even his voice was shaking. John left the room, tossed his gun on the side table in the hall and stumbled out into the fresh air of the sitting room. He peeled the gloves off -- _I want to burn those_ \-- and scrubbed his hands through his hair, pacing.

Had he gone too far? Sherlock didn't give the safeword, but maybe he'd- What if everything was ruined now? 

After a few minutes, he heard the bedroom door open, immediately followed by the bathroom door.

Shower. Sherlock was taking a shower. _Of course he's taking a shower, I said he should, he was a mess when I left- Oh God._

John rubbed a hand over his mouth and continued pacing.

*

When Sherlock came out of the bathroom in his robe what seemed like half an hour later, John stopped pacing and looked at him. He had put on a t-shirt and track pants and stood in the sitting room doorway, shrugging into his robe. 

_Not moving as though in undue pain, red around the wrists, could bruise, no idea what the belt might have done to his legs under the track pants, probably bruising as well..._ John didn't know when he might next see Sherlock without his clothes. The way John felt at the moment, Sherlock had every right to wear ten layers of clothing around him at all times. A dark purple bruise was forming on the side of Sherlock's neck; John couldn't even remember putting that there. His visual inspection stopped at Sherlock's chin. There wasn't a force in the world that could make him meet his flatmate's eyes directly right now. 

John swallowed, staying on the opposite side of the sitting room from Sherlock, shoulders tense. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock said breezily. "John, that was exquisite. Using the gun was inspired."

John sat down fast on the first available flat surface, which turned out to be the coffee table. Magazines rustled beneath him. He buried his face in his hands.

"John, what-?"

For a moment, John just breathed. He felt more than heard Sherlock move closer, and looked up to see his freshly fake-raped flatmate looking at him with confusion.

John dropped his gaze to the floor. "I don't- I don't want to make you feel fear when I touch you, Sherlock."

"I know, John. It's only a game." Sherlock was practically purring. "You did admirably. You can be quite intimidating when you set your mind to it."

"Yeah, but I'd rather not be that with you. Not like that."

"Why?" John could practically hear Sherlock tilting his head analytically. "Because you don't like it, or because you do and that scares you?"

John stood and faced the bookshelf. "Don't. Please don't."

"A safeword does work both ways, you know." Sherlock's voice came from right behind him, gently.

"Yes, actually, I do know some-" John huffed in irritation. "I knew that." 

"You could have ended it at anytime, but you didn't."

"No."

Silence fell and John still couldn't look up to face Sherlock in the mirror.

A long-fingered hand slid along the small of John's back. 

"There really isn't anything you wouldn't do if you knew I really wanted it, is there?"

"Apparently not," John said through clenched teeth.

The hand stilled, then moved up to a more comforting place between John's shoulder-blades. "John. I asked because I thought if it was upsetting you, you'd stop. I thought you would set limits."

"Yeah, well, you seem to be very good at getting me to push my limits." 

Sherlock rubbed small circles on John's back in silence. 

After a while, John looked up at the mirror and saw that familiar shrewd gaze turned on him. He raised his arms to deflect the reflected scrutiny. "Seriously, Sherlock, don't. It's nothing to solve from my past it's just-" He took a breath. "I'd just rather, when I make you moan and thrash, that it not be with fear, even feigned. It feels wrong to me otherwise. So wrong."

Sherlock hummed pensively. "What if we did everything again, same things, with no play-acting about me not wanting it and you needing to force me, would that help?"

John laughed. "Tomorrow maybe? Right now I just need..." His voice dissipated.

"What? You give me what I need so often, John. Tell me what you need."

John turned to face Sherlock. "You, right now. Just you."

Sherlock wrapped John up in his arms with a smile, pressing his lips to John's forehead. "You've always had that, my dear doctor."


End file.
